


Someday is a story

by tip_of_the_Q



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Branjie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, rpdr fanfiction, tw mentions of substance abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tip_of_the_Q/pseuds/tip_of_the_Q
Summary: Brooke Lynn Hates makes a mistake - one she feels she can't come back from.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a collection of past and present, and I promise it will be an emotional rollercoaster. This is one of my most favouritest things to write, so I hope you love it as much as I do!
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Word count: 1974

January in Nashville is harsh and unforgiving. Brooke all but locks herself away in her home, wondering if someone will come around one day and find she has been eaten by her beloved cats. On nights where she has to perform, she shows up, years of ballet training having ingrained a sense of discipline in her that not even the worst of personal defeats can take.

 

She prances around on stage, smiling, performing,  _ pretending _ . 

 

Her hands are full of her hair and her cheeks are dripping with tears as she reads and rereads the email that appears in her inbox with a joyous ‘ding!’ on a Tuesday night. She hears her phone buzz repeatedly, but she can’t answer right now. She can’t think. Her eyes catch on glimmering black letters against a stark white background, until they transform into tiny pixels, with cyan, magenta, yellow and back at the edges. They’re no longer words, they’re just collections of squares that represent her downfall. As if that’s any better.

 

She breaks her own house rule and smokes a cigarette or two or ten right there on her couch. She clutches at the fabric of her decorative pillows, the fabric of her shorts and of her shirt, because she is  _ suffocating _ . She is choking on the smoke-riddled air surrounding her. Except she is sitting stiff as a rock, the only moving the clenching and unclenching of her fingers, scrunching into the already wrinkled cotton t-shirt. 

 

It all smells wrong and it looks wrong and it  _ feels _ wrong. Not that she ever forgot how she  _ wanted _ to feel, how she knew she  _ could _ have felt—she just hasn’t be reminded of the specific events of that night until now. She has lived in a state of denial, willing the flashbacks and the memories to dissipate with every cigarette she smoked, and every drink she consumed.

 

To think that  _ one _ email, a typed message of no more than 200 words, could bring that veil to be pulled from her eyes. She is face to face with the sun of her demise. Her phone buzzes once more, and this time, she actually dares to look at it.

 

It’s Nina. And only then does she notice that Nina is CC’d on the email, along with  _ everyone else _ .

 

As if her devastation wasn’t miserable enough in her own private world, now it has to be broadcast to all of her castmates. Who is she kidding? They all already knew, had all heard the stories. Even if none of them had seen  _ that _ episode yet, they all knew what was to come. Even those of them who weren’t there to see. That was one inevitability of working with drag queens. Word got around. They all knew what was to come.

 

She knows exactly why Nina is calling. It’s because Nina is the only one who hasn’t given up, and who hasn’t picked a side. Who still bothers checking in on her, even if she knows that nothing has changed.

 

Her hand is shaking violently, and she almost can’t hit the green button on her phone. Nearly hangs up instead of answering.

 

“Hey,” Nina’s voice is impossibly soft and Brooke knows this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. “You read the email yet?”

 

Brooke nods. And then she realizes Nina can’t see her. Because she is alone in her apartment, crying over a mess of her own doing. A pathetic, sobbing mess, with no one to blame but her own  _ stupid fucking self _ .

 

Nina hears her sob in lieu of an answer and takes it as a cue to continue. “You know, you  _ can _ say no.”

 

Snot and tears mix and create a choked up sound that Brooke faintly registers as her own laughter, and if that isn’t the most messed up thing in the world, she doesn’t even know what is.

 

“They can’t force you. They know what happened. They know how bad things were.  _ Are _ .”

 

Brooke bites her tongue til the sweet, metallic taste of blood fills her mouth. She can’t speak because she doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t sure she’s spoken at all since her last gig, actually. 

 

“Say something, Brooke,” Nina pleads. “Please?”

 

“I-I’m not…” Brooke croaks, her voice rough and her throat constricting. She emits a heavy gulp and closes her eyes. “I’m going to do it.”

 

“Brooke,” Nina’s voice has a scolding tone it, something akin to a warning laced within her words. “You can’t handle that, I don’t believe it.”

 

“I, eh. I might have to,” the tears won’t stop falling, and the skin beneath her eyes is going to be  _ so _ dry later. “It’s what’s best for the show.”

 

“But what about what’s best for  _ you _ ?” And there’s that concerned mother voice that Brooke both hates and adores because does she really deserve to feel that cared for after everything that’s happened?

 

“That doesn’t matter.”

 

“What about what’s best for  _ her _ ?”

 

“I’ll do it if she wants to. It’s up to her.”

 

“Have you even spoken to her since… You know when?” Nina asks.

 

Brooke wants to say yes. She wants to say that they’ve made up, that all has been forgiven and that all is good in the world. That she doesn’t lie awake at night and stare at her name in her phone. That it doesn’t taunt her, doesn’t bring her anything but joy when she sees a new post or reads another tweet.

 

“No.” She tells the truth. And she cries.

 

She cries for the loss of her best friend, and cries for the loss of her future. She cries because there is nothing else she can do. She hangs up on Nina, and she knows it’s rude and that she could have at least said a proper goodbye. But then again, Nina knows what’s going on. She was there, and she watched it all unfold, in all its glorious misery. She, out of everybody, will understand.

 

Rain pounds on the balcony doors of Brooke’s apartment, and it calls to her. She grabs her pack of Marlboro Gold and trudges out there. The rain is falling in heavy drops, and it doesn’t take long before it soaks through her shorts and her t-shirts. She feels a chill down her spine.

 

She’ll probably be sick tomorrow. That’s probably a good thing.

 

She lights yet another smoke and inhales, toxins travelling down her sore throat and into her tired lungs. She feels weak and she feels abused. Abused by her own hand, at that.

 

Tired, heavy-lidded eyes watch as falling ashes trail after teardrops that mingle with the falling rain. The sky has burst upon above her, and it’s eerily symbolic. The crack of thunder sounds and she laughs, because she feels like she’s in a bad romcom. The saddest part of the movie, just before the protagonist has an epiphany, and the happy ending is right around the corner.

 

Except her happy ending is long gone, and it’s not coming back. It’s more  _ Titanic _ than  _ My Big Fat Greek Wedding _ . And as the water washes everything out in a blurry mess, and Brooke’s hair falls in her eyes, she truly does feel like she is drowning.

 

When her cigarette burns out she lights another one—and another, and another one. Until her throat feels like it’s constricting in an attempt to stop her from poisoning her body further. Until her tongue feels like a lump of crumbled sandpaper, incapable of taste and filing away at the roof of her mouth. Her lips feel dry.

 

Her fingers tighten around the cigarette packet, and the wet carton starts to crumble in her hand. Flakes of white plastic coating peel from the cardboard and wet tobacco flows over from the few cigarettes left in the pack. She drops it onto the balcony floor.

 

Water falls from her every body part, dripping onto the hardwood flooring. Her steps are much heavier than earlier, and every movement of her body seems cumbersome. Her phone is lying on the coffee table, and every minute or so, it vibrates with the arrival of a new message. Every ounce of her is refusing to move. She just stands there, looking at it and hoping it will just  _ shut up _ , so she can wallow in her misery without any distractions. 

 

There’s a row of liquor bottles lined up above her kitchen cabinets, and she eyes them warily. No. She won’t go there. For all that she is, and all that she has done, she is  _ not _ that person.

 

Incapable of walking to the couch, she drops onto the floor in a mess of tangled limbs. She stays as she lands, the uneasiness of her position a welcome distraction from her twisting and turning and  _ burning _ inner parts. She reaches for her phone.

 

There are 15 unread messages, 14 of them from Nina. It’s an endless list of concerns, a mixture of questions and encouragement, reminders to do what she feels she needs to. What she feels she can survive.

 

And then there’s one from Vanessa. She doesn’t want to read it, except she desperately  _ does _ . And once again, she’s a coward. But she’s also the idiot who put them in this predicament, so she owes Vanessa everything; including answering her messages.

 

_ did you get the email? -  _ v

 

_ I did. -  _ b

 

Vanessa reads the message, and Brooke watches the grey dots tumble in the corner of her screen. 

 

_ I think we should do it -  _ v

 

Brooke shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, Vanessa is willing to do it. Even if she’s angry, even if she is  _ hurt _ , she will do what she needs to do in the name of success. Well, almost everything.

 

Even though what production is asking them to do seems downright inhumane given their history, Vanessa powers on. Brooke refrains from answering, and goes into her inbox to reread the email once more.

 

_ Hello, Contestants! _

 

_ With cast announcements and the press tour starting later this month, we wanted to let you all know that the friendships, the rivalries and not to mention, the relationships, that you developed during filming, will play a large part in the success of this season. As the episodes progress, we request that you all “ham it up,” and give the fans something to speculate about. This applies especially to the romance between Vanessa Vanjie Mateo and Brooke Lynn Hytes. As it is our first ever romance on the show, we expect the viewers to react quite powerfully. We would request that you, especially Vanessa and Brooke Lynn, play with this relationship on social media. Keep people wondering about the status of your relationship. Our PR team has predicted that this will do wonders for the ratings. The rest of you would be expected to play along. Remember that you all are bound to a contract, and that you will have to be careful not to disclose any information regarding unaired episodes. That is all! _

 

_ Feel free to write me with any concerns or questions you might have, _

_ Anna Wheeler  _

_ Production Manager _

 

There is no mention of the way their relationship crumbled on what will soon be national television. No mention of the state in which Vanessa left. It’s professional, it’s expectant, and it’s more of a demand than it is a question of their willingness.

 

_ Okay. If that’s what you want.  _ \- b

 

She’ll do as Vanessa says. Even if it’ll end up killing her.

 

The three dots reappear and Brooke’s breath catches in her throat as she tries to figure out exactly what it is Vanessa is going to say next. She’s surprised there’s more to come, surprised Vanjie even wants to communicate at all. If she can call it that.

 

The dots jump and wiggle over and over. They fluctuate from grey to dark grey to black and back again.

 

And then they disappear.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's do another one, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a collection of past and present, and I promise it will be an emotional rollercoaster. This is one of my most favouritest things to write, so I hope you love it as much as I do!
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Word count: 1750

Brooke wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and with a throbbing headache. Her skin sticks to the leather of her couch and everything smells like stale smoke. 

Her fingers carry the scent of burnt down buildings and gunpowder. Her tongue is numb within the chamber of her mouth, and her teeth feel fuzzy. Her vision is hazy. 

Moonlight flitters through flimsy curtains. As the fabric flutters in the passing winds, the light flickers, creating the illusion of being underwater as it ripples across her living room.

Her throat feels tight. 

Hands grab at her phone, the cold glass slipping beneath her fingers. It lands on the hardwood floor with a dull thud and the tiniest of cracks. 

“Fuck.”

She bites her tongue and picks up the device. Cracks run across the screen like jagged lightning bolts. 

Glass embeds into the thin lines of her thumb as she unlocks the phone, screen already displaying what she was looking for. Vanessa’s name shines harshly into her eyes, and the blinding sensation is a painful reminder of the past.

She scrolls through their earliest messages. Before things were a mess of broken hearts and promises. 

It’s supposed to calm her senses, but the opposite proves true. 

It’s a given, isn’t it? That she’ll be plagued by nightmares. Incoherent stories of delicate wins and endless losses. Images that pass by and hit her in a flash, like bugs hitting a windshield. Twisted portraits that all play off of memories that once held happy connotations. And then the one that Brooke doesn’t believe she will ever forget, will never be able to claw from her corneas. The most painful one. Her pitfall. 

_ Strobes. _

_ Heat. _

_ The overpowering smell of sweat. _

_ It’s all Brooke Lynn Hytes registers in that moment. The unbearable feeling of seemingly millions of tiny little lights, scalding her from the inside out. She’s aware that Ru and the other judges are sitting nothing more than a few feet in front of her, aware that Nina West is so close that if she were to reach out her left hand just a bit, they’d be touching. Most of all, she is acutely aware of the tiny Puerto-rican to the left of Nina, wearing a blonde wig on tonight’s runway. She stares at the blinding lights above her for what feels like forever, and when she finally turns to look at the other queens, they’re nothing more than blurry shapes, interjected with the white dots that have been infused with her sight. _

_ She blinks, eyelids heavy with makeup and lashes and  _ **fear** _. _

_ There’s an unpleasant buzzing in her ears, and she can’t tell if it’s technical difficulties, or the sound of her own blood rushing through her skull with a deafening intensity. _

_ She blinks, and this time the dots seem to nearly have disappeared completely. _

_ Ross Matthews is looking at her curiously, and her thoughts flitter to Pearl, as she wonders if she has something on her face. Her gut is churning, and her chest is filled with a sensation that is at once making her breathing shallower than she ever remembers it being, and making her feel as if she could burst into a fit of laughter at the absurdity of the situation. _

_ She is far from delusional. She knows she messed up the challenge this week. She knows Vanessa did too. She  _ **knows** _ they’re going to be lip syncing. Nina’s presence on the stage is nothing short of an act, an attempt at creating suspense - which may be effective once the episode streams, months from then, but which fails to impress her at this time. She knows this is it, her chance to be a part of the top four. _

_ “Nina West,” Ru finally speaks, and Brooke can feel an oncoming of tears lodge just behind her eyes. “You’re safe.” _

_ A heavy sigh from her left. _

_ A harmony of soft gasps and murmured words from Shuga Cain and A’keria, coming from behind her.  _

_ The sound of rustling fabric as Vanessa steps closer to her, stopping just short of entering her personal space. _

_ The sound of her own heart beating her in temples, as she drops into a squatting position, pressing her hands frantically against the side of her head in a vain attempt at putting an end to this unbearable noise that’s emitting from within her. _

_ A knee brushes against her own. Vanessa is beside her, matching her seated position and reaching for her hand. She lets her grab it. Lets the other’s warmth engulf her, creeping from her fingertips to her upper arm, all the way to her chest. _

_ “Come on, bitch. Stand up.” _

_ The tenderness that is interlaced with her rough wording registers somewhere within Brooke’s frantic mind, and she allows Vanessa to pull them both to their feet, standing closely together, hands intertwined tightly between them. _

_ “We talked about this, remember?” _

_ She nods. They did. They made an agreement. _

_ “Vanessa Vanjie Mateo. Brooke Lynn Hytes,” Ru looks as unaffected as ever, and it awakens an undefinable anger in Brooke’s stomach. “I’m sorry my dears, but that means you are  _ **both** _ up for elimination.” _

_ Brooke’s unoccupied hand opens and closes repeatedly. She’s sure she’d be seeing drops of sweat trickling down her fingertips, if only she could stop looking at Ru, if only she could stop looking anywhere but the person at her side. _

_ “Ru, if I can just say something,” Vanessa speaks, and Brooke’s heart is threatening to block her airways as it feels as if it is travelling up her throat at an alarming rate. “I won’t lipsync against Brooke. I’d rather leave voluntarily.” _

_ For the first time in the course of the season, Ru looks genuinely shocked, confused, and even a bit offended. It’s understandable. This was a Drag Race first, if Brooke had ever seen one. Perhaps Ru’s expression would’ve been comical, if it weren’t for the panic that was limiting her from experiencing anything but extreme discomfort. Swallowing had never been more painful. _

_ She feels Vanessa squeeze her hand repeatedly, as if waiting for her to speak as well. And that had been the deal, hadn’t it? They’d both volunteer to leave. Save them from lip syncing against each other, and leaving the final decision up to Ru, with the intention of leaving on their own, should Ru propose one of them actually leave. But; the words won’t come. They’re somewhere within her throat, lodged between a sickening urge to just run and a lingering sense that she needs to stay. At all costs. _

_ “Brooke Lynn,” Ru finally speaks, voice low, “do you share Vanessa’s feelings about this lip sync?” _

_ They’d made a deal. _

_ With a last ounce of strength, Brooke turns her head to look down at the queen by her side, face blank and eyes blinking rapidly. _

_ Vanessa’s smiling at her, so infinitely soft that she can barely distinguish it from the painted on emotions of her makeup. Her eyes are sparkling, full of immense emotion and overwhelming devotion. _

_ Brooke remembers her eyes looking eerily similar to that on the night they’d made their agreement: they’d been sitting cross legged across from each other on Brooke’s bed, knees touching and fingers linked, speaking in hushed whispers as to not alert any potential on-listeners of the severity of their conversation. They hadn’t exchanged “ _ I love you’s _ ” verbally, but the atmosphere in the dingy hotel room had been filled with the unspoken confessions. _

_ That same unspoken sentence was hidden within Vanessa’s stare now, and Brooke couldn’t bear to see it. _

_ She looks down upon her feet, once more overcome with the absurdity of the situation and feeling the urge to laugh, and cry, and  _ scream _. Then she glances at Vanessa once more, locking their eyes together in a final show of commitment. _

_ “ _ **No** _.” _

_ Her hand is empty as soon as the word leaves her lips, and Vanessa is suddenly far away from her, completely out of reach. Her heart seems to have moved the distance alongside the small queen, leaving a jagged wound, square in Brooke’s chest. _

_ She wants to drop back onto the ground. She wants to sink into the runway floor, and never resurface. She wants to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness because Vanessa is looking at her with tears in her eyes and the only thing she can read on her face is  _ **betrayal** _ , and it is far worse than what Brooke ever thought another human being could make her feel. _

_ She wants to tell Ru that she’s joking, that she didn’t mean it, that she’s an idiot. But she wants to  _ **stay** _ and she wants to  _ **win** _ , and she wants to do it, so bad, that she is willing to hurt the one person who promised to never hurt  _ her _. _

_ “Vanessa,” Ru speaks softly, and Brooke is sure she has never seen such heartfelt compassion on the usually stoic queen’s face. “Does this mean you will be lip syncing after all?” _

_ Brooke closes her eyes and lifts her head to the sky, praying with every remaining bit of her heart, whatever little there may be left, that Vanessa will just say  _ **yes** _. That she might just send  _ **her** _ home, make her regret her selfish decision. _

_ There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then Vanessa speaks, voice gruff and filled with unshed tears. “I stand by what I said. I’ll leave.” _

_ And of course,  _ **this** _ is her decision. Because she has the integrity and the gut that Brooke likes to think she has, but which seems to be nothing more than a delusion at this point. Because Vanessa wouldn’t dare break her heart, even now, when Brooke has done just that to her. Because she’s  _ **Vanessa** _ , and she’s everything Brooke will never be. _

_ “If that is your final decision,” Ru pauses briefly, and Vanessa nods firmly, keeping her head high. Ru turns her eyes to Brooke Lynn. “Brooke Lynn Hytes - shantay you stay. You may join the other queens.” _

_ As she walks to the back of the stage and joins Shuga Cain to the left of the runway, she doesn’t dare look at any of the other queens. She  _ **knows** _ what they’re thinking. _

_ “Vanessa Vanjie Mateo,” there is so much pride in Ru’s voice, “you have made a mark like no other on this competition. You are, and always will be, a part of this family. We love you. Now, sashay, away.” _

_ This time, when Vanessa leaves the runway, she doesn’t utter a single word. _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!
> 
> Word count: 2792

Brooke is far from a tech wizard. She has a team assigned to her from the production of the show, supposed to help her with her social media presence. When it comes to Vanessa - she prefers doing it herself. They’ve entered an unspoken agreement, to make this seem as genuine as possible. They’re both aware of the power of a well-placed showmance, and it won’t be long until theirs is blasted into the public. So Brooke likes her pictures. In fact, she does exactly what is expected of her.

 

_ “She’s #waisted” _

 

_ “Forgot how much I love this dress” _

 

Comments, emojis, tweets. Such casual, meaningless words and expressions thrown around without a second thought. They’ve been playing this game for about a month now, albeit it hasn’t escalated to what they both know it’ll have to later. 

 

As the season progresses, more and more details about their soon-to-be doomed relationship will come forth, and they’ve been informed that when it does, they will need to up the ante. 

 

Brooke’s phone is spinning between her fingers, and her legs are bouncing up and down, making her Uber driver stare at her with distaste. It feels as if the entire car is wobbling beneath her. Her head is spinning.

 

The driver does an obvious double take in the mirror, and Brooke can feel his mood switch. Suddenly, his eyes flitter from the road to the rearview mirror with nothing more than a few seconds in between. Brooke feels spied on. But she also feels seen, and she feels  _ noticed _ , in a way that she usually only does when she’s on stage.

 

She watches him. Middle-eastern descent, a faint stubble and smooth black hair. His eyes are too close together and his lips are tiny little lines that don’t seem inviting. But he’s not bad looking, and Brooke is in a state of mind that she cannot explain for the life of her. So she spreads her legs a little and rests a finger on her lip as she raises her brows at him. 

 

His eyes darken, even in the miniscule light of the dashboard icons. Then he grins, and it’s wide and eery and unpleasant, and Brooke’s legs are crossed as fast as she possibly can as she remembers where she is going. What is she doing, losing her mind in the back of a stranger’s car? She vows to take production up on the offer of a real chauffeur the next time she has a Drag race related gig.

 

It’s the end of February, and the cast is meeting up for the first time since its reveal back in January. She has every reason to be terrified, having not talked to most of the girls since they parted ways after filming. She’s ignored messages from the few of them who bothered to check on her, aside from Nina, Plastique and Ariel. 

 

Still, Nina had been the only one with whom she had discussed the events of Vanessa’s final night with. So when she walks into the waiting area and is enveloped by Nina’s firm arms, memories that she’s been furiously trying to push back come rushing back, and it takes every ounce of energy she possesses not to break down right then and there.

 

_ The atmosphere in the workroom following Vanessa’s voluntary departure is thick with blame, but all Brooke really feels is sickening guilt, a dull ache in her every joint. There’s silence for a long time, as they sit, strewn across the couch and the chairs that have held so many happy memories. The floor is littered with specks of glitter that seems to have been ingrained in the floor from several seasons back, and there’s a solitary piece of gum right next to Brooke’s foot. She stares long and hard at it, making a mental map of the indentations on it, and tries to think back to which queen might possibly have put it there. _

 

_ “Girl,” Shuga Cain finally breaks the silence, the single word leaving her in a long, drawn out breath. “You fucked up.” _

 

_ Brooke squares her shoulders, but her eyes never leave the piece of gum. She barely blinks, afraid that it’ll be the one move to make the tears start to spill. She doesn’t deserve to cry, she really doesn’t. Everything she is feeling is strictly her fault, and she deserves no sympathy. Not even from herself. She can’t feel bad for herself, no matter how much her chest is aching, and her entire head burning with unshed tears. _

 

_ “She didn’t even leave a message,” Nina mutters, looking longingly at the mirror across from them. The others turn to look, as if the lack of a message had made them all forget there was supposed to be one there in the first place. _

 

_ With a chest-rattling sigh, Brooke stands, wobbly on her feet. She stands still for just a moment, and then moves to the mirror, resting her hands on the edge of the vanity. She allows the entire weight of her body to rely on that counter, and leans her forehead against the mirror, closing her eyes forcefully. Her hands wander across the countertop, the empty space where Vanessa’s things had been scattered about only moments earlier. Her hands catch on a scratch in the otherwise smooth surface, and she looks down, breath catching. The scratch in itself seems accidental, but it is the wetness that she finds right next to it that makes her halter. Four, no, five, drops of water. Tears.  _

 

_ She lets her hand cover them, smearing them across the countertop with a frustrated intake of breath. If she thinks much longer, much harder, her head will surely explode and her brain matter will adorn the already pink walls. So she goes to her workstation, ignoring the conversation the other girls are having behind her. Her mind is elsewhere, and although she hears her own name and Vanessa’s name over and over, she does not register anything else that is being said. She is busy being miserable and lonely and stupid. _

 

_ The bite of the autumn air that claws at her face and throat as she pushes the door open is all-consuming. It makes her fingers stiff and chills her to the bone. She is uncomfortable from head to toe, and she revels in the way her body screams at her to go back inside, to  _ stop _. She steps down the stairs and is about to take a seat on the bench that production has so gracefully granted them. A thought strikes her, and with purposeful steps she stands right beside it, only to drop down and sit on the asphalt next to it. Her back scratches against the concrete wall of the building as she does so, and it leaves a slight burn that she knows she deserves. _

 

_ Shaking hands fumble with a cigarette, and she burns her thumb in an attempt to light it. The red, crappy plastic lighter in her hand seems suddenly foreign and highly offending to her, and as soon as her cigarette is lit, she throws it onto the ground. It shatters into fifteen or something pieces of Vanessa’s favorite color, all in stark contrast to the darkness of the asphalt. _

 

_ If only it were raining. Then she would be the perfect image of a self-induced destruction with no way of recovering. If only she could feel as miserable on the outside as she did in the pit of her stomach. If someone were to shoot a hot piece of led straight through her skull, perhaps she’d feel more at ease. _

 

_ Her hand is burning. Throbbing. Still damp from where she had come into contact with Vanessa’s tears. Still clinging to the ghost of Vanessa’s hand in hers. Still a part of her own, cowardly being. _

 

_ She smokes the cigarette to the filter, and then a little further, only to feel herself nearly choke on the smoke. The embers at the tip of it scorch her fingertips and she throws it into the mess of jagged plastic pieces already littering the ground. _

 

_ Concrete meets the back of her head as she throws her head back, letting a guttural sob sound into the night. _

 

Her legs feel ledded and her mind is a turbulent mess as she enters the stage, greeting Monét on the way to her seat. She sits down next to Ariel, with whom she had exchanged a few words of small talk backstage. 

 

Ariel keeps an eye on her as the rest of the queens enter. Brooke hadn’t seen Vanessa backstage, and she’s sure it has something to do with Silky and A’keria huddling together in a corner, tan legs visible on the other side of their makeshift wall. 

 

She emerges from behind the silver curtain in a pink dress and pink-tipped wig, body language wild and voice as boisterous as always. 

 

Ariel’s hand is on Brooke thigh during her entrance, and it rests there whenever Vanessa opens her mouth, a constant comfort. Nina looks back repeatedly, worry hidden beneath a smile as she nods encouragingly at Brooke. 

 

Through it all, Brooke  _ tries _ . She smiles and laughs and  _ tries  _ in all the moments that she is expected to. 

 

She watches the back of Vanessa’s head, the bopping of her wig as she moves around, joking excitedly with the other girls. While Brooke feels a rush in being part of this whole thing, in being on a show that she has watched for so long, she also feels distinctly  _ hollow _ . Somewhat like a leaking snowglobe, all that is supposed to make her pretty and interesting spilled on the floor beneath her.

 

Jokes about a lack of personality already spin around her head. She’s not much good in this crowd, with everyone’s voices rising above one another’s. Her mind is saying too much all at once, and she knows that she’ll watch this interview later and cringe at herself. Thankfully, Rajah makes enough of a spectacle of herself to distract from the fact that Brooke is mentally nowhere to be found.

 

Afterwards, there’s food and drinks laid out on a long row of tables backstage. No one is eager to leave, most of them having not seen each other in ages. They’ve not made plans reaching far out of their established groups, and so for many of them it is a reunion.

 

Brooke nearly cries as Shuga wraps her arms around her with a wistful smile and whispers in her ear.

 

“Are you okay, girl?”

 

Words hurt, so a nod is all she musters. Her eyes are drawn to the end of the table, where Vanessa is standing, clutching a can of Cola Zero in her hands. Their eyes meet.

 

Brooke’s breath hitches and stays as a painful ball of heat in her chest - Vanessa is  _ smiling _ .  _ At her _ .

 

It’s sad and unbelievably beautiful, and it’s everything that Brooke has missed for the past few months.

 

Shuga’s arm stays around her shoulders as she turns to follow the direction of Brooke’s eyes.

 

“You should talk to her,” she finally says, patting Brooke’s shoulder lightly. “She needs you to.”

 

And Shuga is probably right, and Brooke is probably - no, most  _ definitely _ , an idiot. So she stays rooted to her spot, tells Shuga  _ no _ in the softest voice possible, the word barely there as she tries to reactivate her vocal chords. Shuga’s reaction is a mix between a sigh and a scoff, and disappointment radiates off of her as she leaves Brooke standing by herself, looking into a platter of cold chicken breast.

 

Within Brooke, there’s something bending and twisting and turning, moving so painstakingly slow. It’s a tiny piece of her, that has grown to take up most of her chest cavity during the few months that she and Vanessa have been apart.

 

She hasn’t felt like this since she came to terms with being gay so many years ago. Since she came out to her family, putting their reputation at risk, and making them adjust to the fact that she was  _ different _ . That was the first time she felt such devastating  _ guilt _ , such a frightening loathing of her own character. Back then, she had felt so terrible for the distress she had caused her family, the unavoidable trouble that came with being a gay man in rural Canada. Even though it worked out, the thought of how much easier it would’ve been had she just been  _ normal _ , had never escaped her for long.

 

Although it was scary, that same feeling engulfed her as she watched Vanessa. Guilt and relief all mixed into one, a cocktail that made her dizzy and sick to her stomach. Never had she craved a cigarette so fiercely.

 

Instead, she walks briskly to the bathroom, her steps long and fast, heels slamming into the floor with a ferocity that threatens to break them. The door slams behind her, and she’s grateful to find that no one else is there. She has half a mind to just stick her face directly under the tap. She feels impossibly hot. Unfortunately, a face full of make up leaves little room for traditional cooling methods. 

 

Paper towels from backstage bathrooms turn out to be frail and faulty when it comes to using them as a device for dabbing water. Brooke’s face, although cooled down a bit, is now littered with tiny flakes of soaked through paper. It sticks to her skin, and she picks at it carefully. She may be a mess on the inside, but she refuses to look one on the outside.

 

The door swings open, but Brooke is to absorbed with trying to save face to notice who’s in there with her. Until that certain someone speaks.

 

“Hey.”

 

If there is one voice Brooke would recognize at any time in her life - this is it. Her eyes move from her now spotted foundation to Vanessa’s expressive eyes, staring straight at her from just a couple of feet away. 

 

“Hi,” Brooke croaks back, frozen in place.

 

Vanessa moves to stand next to her, inches from touching her.

 

“It’s been a while.”

 

Brooke has to smile at that. Not a smile of joy, but a smile that reflects how absurd this all is. Here she is, in a dingy bathroom, with the only one person she wants to at once wrap herself around and run away from at a deadly pace.

 

“It has,” she finally says. Her eyes are back on her face, and she picks the last stray piece of paper from her cheek with the tip of her fingernails.

 

“How you’ve been?”

 

There’s a tremor to Vanessa’s voice, and when Brooke looks at her again she can see her body visibly shaking. Her eyes are wide and wet, and her lips are parted, trembling.

 

“I-” Brooke considers telling the truth, but then she doesn’t deserve any sympathy - and she  _ knows _ Vanessa, so she knows the sympathy will be there. “I’ve been okay.”

 

So she lies. And she watches Vanessa smile, all lips and teeth and no emotion.

 

“Yeah, me too,” she scoffs.

 

Brooke doesn’t know what to say. She knows she’s a decent liar, knows that she can portray the happy canadian queen any day, if only she so chooses. Vanessa is not that. She’s a cannonball of truth and pure emotion, and right now her eyes are portraying every emotion that her words aren’t. It’s easier for Brooke to just turn her back and make her way towards the door, careful not to touch Vanessa on her way out.

 

“You never apologized.”

 

She freezes. Vanessa’s words send a shiver down her spine. She can feel Vanessa right behind her, her breath warm on Brooke’s neck. Her words are what truly make her body react. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling warm tears form at the corners of her eyes.

 

It’s true.

 

During all those months, she hasn’t had the strength to apologize. She’s been so close. Sitting on her couch, laying in her bed, standing in line at the grocery store. All that’s been running through her mind for forever;  _ I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. _

 

She wants to speak it out loud. Not a day passes by where she doesn’t think it. But then the thought is immediately followed by another. A more persistent one, one that packs more of a punch.  _ You don’t deserve her forgiveness. And she will forgive you. You are not ready for that. You broke her. Her heart is too big for you, and you are a weapon of mass destruction and you do  _ not _ deserve her goodness. Stay away _ .

 

Instead her lips form a close-mouthed smile, and a single tear spills over as she tilts her head sadly. 

 

“I know.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!
> 
> Word count: 3150

Brooke has heard it said that you only live once, so you should make the most of it. She has also heard it said that you should think before you leap, and try not to make haste.

 

She doesn’t know what to believe anymore, so she doesn’t do anything at all.

 

She receives a text one morning from none other than Nina West. She’s forgotten what day it is up until that point, hidden away beneath blankets of sorrow and mindless performances. The hours had mixed seamlessly, had flown by as she herself boarded airplane after airplane. She’s not sure how long it’s been since she last saw Vanessa, she just knows that thinking about her hasn’t gotten any easier.

 

_ Are you ready for tonight? - N _

 

It comes crashing down, all at once, a cascade of emotions that make her taste buds burn and her lips crack. She looks at the calendar in her phone, and it is indeed the one day she has feared above all others in the past few months. There, written within an innocent green square, is the truth she has furiously pushed from sight, the one event she had so vehemently tried to weasel her way out of.

 

_ Viewing party w. Nina and Vanessa - 9pm. _

 

She wants to rip her heart out and ship it to the bar, let them know that should pass it on to Vanessa, alongside an apology. She feels weak at the knees, and her arms are heavy, and she’s shaking so hard she can barely keep her phone tucked in her hand.  _ Fuck _ . It’s been months since she had to live through crushing Vanessa’s dreams - since she so carelessly ripped her love from her mouth and spit on it.

 

_ i’ll be there - b _

 

She doesn’t lie, not really. She has to show up, and the professional within her is refusing to bail on the arrangers of the event, no matter how much the emotional being inside her screams. No matter how her heart tears at and tries to squeeze between the bars that surround it.

 

The rest of her day she spends in fear, at once afraid that Vanessa will cancel, and that she won’t. Despite it all, Brooke wants to see her; she’s not entirely sure she will ever  _ not _ want to. If only she weren’t so damn afraid of looking into her eyes, those orbs of roasted coffee and autumn leaves, things might have been different by now. Had she been able to shake Vanessa out of her mind, off of her skin, and project her into the universe as nothing but a learning experience - she’d probably be okay.

 

But she sticks to her like gum to the sole of her shoe, making her pause in her step and rip with nails and teeth and bloodied fingers. She’d cut her out, if only she weren’t the face she saw whenever she looked at the ground passing beneath her on a plane, and in the smoke from her cigarettes. If only she could.

 

Surviving. That’s what she’s been doing. She doesn’t want to be a kid about it, doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her. Nina does, but it’s only because Brooke hasn’t been able to stop her. No matter how many times she looks at her with daggers for eyes and berates her with hateful sentiments, she won’t back down. She insists on pitying her, and Brooke has reached a point of begrudging acceptance.

 

Everything passes by too fast, yet too slow. The hours before she starts to paint her face - which she always does two hours too early anyways - are excruciating. There’s nothing for her to do except sit around in her hotel room, chewing on her cheeks and biting her nails, watching as a cheetah chases it prey across the savannah, the image grainy on the TV screen. She tries to read, but the words bleed together and the letters twist and turn into abstract constellations.

 

When she starts to apply her makeup, it seems as if the clock suddenly picks up the pace, as if to make up for the time lost during the afternoon. Her usual routine is defined entirely by peaceful paint strokes. Tonight, it’s like she’s trying to follow a tutorial online, scrambling to get done on time. A part of her wants it all to be over with, so maybe if she rushes through it, she’ll be home and alone soon enough.

 

It never once occurred to her that one could feel homesick for a hotel room - yet that’s exactly what she feels as she walks into the bar. The music is too loud already, a tension headache that’s been building for days reaching its climax as she walks through the backdoor.

 

As is the usual with these gigs, the dressing room is tiny, and a dozen people are continuously breezing through the doors, setting up sound and light and catering to the needs of their performers. Brooke hears herself ask for a drink before she’s even thought it through. If her mouth has decided she needs to get wasted, who is she to intervene?

 

Nina is there already, makeup done and a wig cap on. She looks positively insane, and Brooke smiles. Nina has always been a source of positivity, the human equivalent of a Wii-character. Even through the gloom and the dread Brooke is feeling, she can take a moment to appreciate how out of all her season eleven sisters, she is lucky that it is Nina she is with on this night. Had it been anyone else, someone who had not been so ferociously in her corner throughout it all, Brooke isn’t sure how she’d cope. When she’d been told that Vanessa was set to make a surprise appearance in the first commercial break, the first thing she did was call Nina in a panicked rush. As always, her calming words of reassurance had managed to ease the tumbling mess of Brooke’s mind. 

 

Seeing her now, all smiles and silent encouragements, was all that kept Brooke grounded. Her heart was stuck in her throat, her feet moving at their own accord as they tapped against the concrete flooring. Everything would be crashing down upon her within the next few hours. 

 

The exterior was about to explode. Everyone was about to know what she had done, and she was overpowered by the need for them to scream at her, to tell her that she deserved nothing short of the worst. For them to feel the way about her she feels about herself.

 

“You look good, girl!” Nina hugs her close, squeezes her a few more times than what is really necessary.

 

“I look a hot mess, but thank you,” and she smiles, and it’s genuine, a surprise to even herself. “You, however, Ms. West. Stun-ning.”

 

Nina twirls around, lifting the skirt of her dress. They laugh, and Brooke feels almost human.

 

“Y’all having fun, ladies?”

 

A breath. The stutter of shifting feets coming to a halt.

 

Vanessa.

 

“Miss  _ Vaaanjie _ ,” Nina cries out, hurrying towards Vanessa, pulling her into an exaggerated hug. Vanessa looks at Brooke over the taller queen’s shoulder, an unreadable expression on her painted features. Brooke dares smile, even as her insides are twisting and pulling and threatening to spill out of her mouth. Vanessa remains stoic, only smiles as she pulls away from Nina and greets her. She’s guided towards the mirror next to Brooke’s by a member of the crew, and she throws down her tote bag of supplies without much care.

 

“Hi,” Brooke tries, thankful that Nina has the decency to pretend that she is fully engrossed with her own mug for now.

 

“Hey,” it’s more a grunt than a word, but Brooke powers through. She feels terrible at the memory of their last meeting, and the way she had acted. She had no right to keep hurting her.

 

“You look beautiful,” she catches herself sounding breathless as she says it, and she feels Nina’s questioning gaze on the back of her head.

 

“I know, bitch,” Vanessa huffs, and Brooke visibly recoils. “Ain’t you got something better to do than bother me?”

 

“Right,” Brooke nods, eyes downcast. She feels Nina’s hand on her wrist. “My bad.”

 

“Brooke Lynn! Nina! We need you on stage!” the shout comes from a stout man with a greasy moustache, standing by the door with an impatient sneer on his face. Brooke’s having a great night already.

 

“C’mon, Brooke,” Nina grabs Brooke by the hand this time, and as they’re halfway out the door, Brooke turns around. She catches Vanessa’s eye in the mirror.

 

“See you out there?” she asks. She knows she will, of course, that’s the gig. Yet her voice rises into hopeful territory as she asks, as if she’s not entirely Vanessa is even really there. She might be a figment of her imagination, as she has been so many nights before.

 

“Yeah.”

 

It happens in a flash. The episode starts. It cuts to commercial. Vanessa comes out on stage, the crowd erupting in cheers as she dances her way over to a chair next to Brooke’s. Their eyes meet, and they both smile. Brooke knows hers is real, but she’s not sure about the twitch that pulls at Vanessa’s lips, the almost uncomfortable way her lips seem to stretch.

 

The tension within the crowd grows increasingly thicker, as it becomes abundantly clear that Vanessa and Brooke are for certain going to be in the bottom three. Brooke can feel everybody’s eyes on the two of them, and she desperately wants to reach out for Vanessa’s hand. Only, Vanessa is tucked so far into herself that Brooke isn’t sure she could ever pry her apart.

 

She watches as they kiss on screen, except she’s much more focused on the way the creases on Vanessa’s forehead smoothes out as she watches their story play before them. She looks at nothing but Vanessa as she hears her own voice so viciously puts an end to all that Vanessa has worked towards for years. To everything they’ve worked for together.

 

She watches as Vanessa’s eyes fall closed, and her breathing speeds up. And then she doesn’t watch anything but the blur that blinds her as she herself pushes through a crowd of grabbing hands, through the dingy dressing room and out into the humid air.

 

Even the bricks of the wall seems uncomfortably hot, as she leans against it with both hands outstretched, her head dropping between her shoulders as she struggles to breathe. It’s all spinning, and she can hear the crowd inside booing, screaming, chanting Vanessa’s name. To think it used to drop from Brooke’s very own lips like a desperate plea at night, one that was met and resolved with all the tenderness in the world.

 

Now it’s just her and the wall and the tears that drop to the asphalt beneath her feet. The alley is deserted as far as she’s able to see through her tears. She beats her fist into the wall, and it sends a wave of shock down through her arm, settling into her shoulder. She does it again, and again, and again, until her hand is numb and her arm is tingling. Then she drops to the ground, cradling her head in her hands. Her hand stings as tears glide across the sensitive skin, mixing with faint traces of blood and running down her forearms. 

 

“Hey.”

 

Her head whips upwards at the sound of Vanessa’s gruff voice, and she stares up at her. No doubt her makeup is a mess, an accurate representation of her innermost parts.

 

Vanessa reaches her hand out to her, and doesn’t even wince as she comes into contact with swollen knuckles and not-yet-dry patches of blood. She helps Brooke to her feet, catching the staggering queen with her other hand. As soon as she’s regained her balance, Vanessa’s wraps both hands around Brooke’s injured one, rubbing circles into her flesh with her thumb.

 

“What is this?” she asks, gesturing towards Brooke entire being with a nod of her head.

 

“I-” Brooke gasps for air. She can feel herself shaking uncontrollably, and she feels utterly pathetic. “I couldn’t watch it.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

“I’m…” she closes her eyes, exhales through her nose. “It’s all so complicated now.”

 

“You made your choice, Brooke,” Vanessa sighs, and Brooke can hear the weariness in her voice.

 

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” it’s all she can think to say, her mind centered around the feeling of Vanessa  _ so close, touching her _ . “I never wanted to lose you.”

 

“Then why’d you do it?”

 

_ There’s a microphone in her face, and she can feel Ru and Michelle’s eyes on her as she chews on her lower lip and digs her nails into the table. _

 

_ “You made quite the difficult decision this season, Brooke Lynn,” Ru begins, and Brooke shuts her eyes so closely she can feel a strain in her temple. “Sending home someone you obviously cared deeply for. Would you say that was the most difficult moment for you this season?” _

 

_ Brooke laughs, but it’s hollow and it’s so  _ weird _ , like she’s hearing it from another room, or another dimension. _

 

_ “You could say that,” she says simply, and when she opens her eyes she’s somewhat relieved to see Michelle looking at her sympathetically. Ru, however, is eyeing her with all the gentleness of a lioness. _

 

_ “Why’d you do it?” Ru asks, and Brooke wants to strangle her. _

 

_ “In the moment, I just thought about how badly I wanted to stay. How much it meant for me to be here,” she smiles sadly. “Now, I can’t even tell anymore.” _

 

_ “I think it’s important that you girls know how much faith I put into each and everyone of you,” Ru nods, as if he’s trying to make Brooke understand, as if to tell her she made the right decision. “This is, above all else, a competition. Now I know it’s an extraordinary opportunity to connect with your peers, but in the end, you’re here to win.” _

 

_ “Right.” _

 

_ “You have a chance now, Brooke,” Michelle speaks, none of her usual bite in her voice. “You can win this. I think, ultimately, that’s what you need to focus on now.” _

 

_ The now hangs in the air, a reminder of the fact that now winning is the only thing she can possibly look forward to. There’s no looking forward to lazy sunday mornings in bed, or sharing a bunk on a tour bus, or walking down Hollywood Boulevard hand in hand. There’s only competition now, and even then it has never felt less important to Brooke. _

 

_ “And I am,” she grits her teeth. “I’m here for the crown, Ru.” _

 

_ “Now, if you could say anything to Vanessa, right now, what would it be?” _

 

_ It’s a cruel question, and Brooke wants to tell Ru that he can shove his ratings where the sun doesn’t shine, that he should go and stab himself with his Emmy.  _

 

_ “I’d tell her…” she trails off, and Michelle places her hand upon Brooke’s, in what is the most comfort she has ever seen the judge openly offer. That I love her. And if I could take it all back, I would. That I hope she never forgives me. “That it wasn’t her fault. That it was my own, selfish decision, and if I win. It’s for her.” _

 

_ It’s not a lie, but it is not the full truth either. She wants to tell her that she lies awake in her hotel room at night and cries out her name as she wakes up from nightmare after nightmare, each one worse than the previous. That she means the world to her, and that she is so much more valuable than any trophy, than any cash price. _

 

_ “I hope she hears this.” Ru smiles, and Brooke would like to personally rip out each and every tooth in his mouth. “Good luck Brooke, I can’t wait to see what you bring to the finale.” _

 

_ “Thank you, Ru.” And fuck you. _

 

“I don’t know,” she admits. Her own reasoning has long since escaped her, and all she feels is regret. “But I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Vanessa’s eyes fill with tears, and soon she has dark trails of mascara to match Brooke’s own, marking her skin with her sorrow.

 

“Are you?”

 

“I’m fucking sorry, Vanessa,” Brooke uses her free hand to grasp at her wig, knowing that she’ll look a fine mess when she walks back inside. “I was selfish and stupid, and I loathe myself for doing this to you. I’m so sorry.”

 

Vanessa tugs at her hand, until she releases the innocent hair of her wig with a frustrated sigh. Vanessa covers Brooke’s fingers with her own, moving their joined digits to caress Brooke’s face, oh so gently. Then she leans forward, stopping an inch from Brooke’s lips. Her eyes are filled with questions, and Brooke wants to answer every single one of them if she can. For now, she’ll settle with answering the one that seems to be at the forefront.

 

She leans forward, closing the remaining distance between them. Their lips meet, and it is wet and salty and Brooke knows her mouth tastes like iron and smoke, and the drinks she’s been knocking back for the past two hours.

 

Vanessa is exactly as she remembers her. Gentle, lips soft as marshmallows. There’s no tongue. It’s all an exchanging of words and emotions that are too difficult to speak out loud in this moment.

 

Brooke sobs into her mouth and they separate. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

Vanessa hushes her, reclaiming her lips with a forceful hand on the back of Brooke’s head.

 

They stand there for so long, lips fused together. Brooke feels a drop of rain down her back, breaking through the thin layer of sweat that covers her. She pulls away, although it’s really nothing more than a few inches, and turns her head to the sky. The stars that were so brightly shining earlier have been covered by thunderous clouds, and Brooke doesn’t know what she’s feeling.

 

She’s back in Vanessa’s embrace after spending all those months imagining it, and her chest is bursting, joy and relief and so much  _ sadness _ , spilling over.

 

She cries and she cries, and the tears won’t stop falling as Vanessa pulls her in for another kiss. With every break for air they take, she mutters: “I’m sorry,” and Vanessa pulls her in anew, silencing her.

 

When she finally pulls all the way from her, her hands once more grabbing Brooke’s injured one, there’s a sad smile on her lips. Brooke mirrors it, and she’s sure that they might finally be on the same page.

 

“Let’s go take care of that hand,” Vanessa says, running her fingers across it. Brooke hisses in pain. “I’ll call us a cab.”

  
  



End file.
